


Labels

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 04:57:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17502014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Garrison and his team and one of the Contract Agents had left on a mission that had been offhandedly described by Colonel Butterfield as one that 'might be just a trifle awkward'.  Now, waiting for that long over-due team to return, waiting for any word at all, Major Kevin Richards ponders that ever so innocuous sounding phrase.  When it was all over, when one of the participants decided to teach Colonel Butterfield a good lesson as to what that phrase, and a few other similar ones being tossed around so easily, really MEANT versus the way he'd been using it, Richards hesitated and then stepped aside.  It seemed a good lesson might be just the thing!





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Just a trifle awkward' - he was an expert on things that were just a trifle awkward. Funny, NONE of them had involved parachuting behind enemy lines, blowing up bridges, kidnapping enemy officers, all the various things the teams got involved in. Of course, a lot depended on the point of view of the person creating and attaching that so innocuous label, and a great deal on the point of view of the person dealing with the situation first hand as well. It was amazing, sometimes, how far apart those points of view could be.

While waiting for a telephone call that would tell him whether his world had just been shattered, Major Kevin Richards pondered on the concept of labels. In particular, the labels some of the other Handlers and Directors were attaching to the mission files for the Special Forces and Special Ops teams. Labels like 'just a walk in the park', 'piece of cake', 'just a Sunday stroll', 'perhaps a tad sticky', 'just a trifle awkward'.

That last one stuck in his mind. 'Just a trifle awkward' - he was an expert on things that were just a trifle awkward. Funny, NONE of them had involved parachuting behind enemy lines, blowing up bridges, kidnapping enemy officers, all the various things the teams got involved in. The things this particular team, the one so long overdue, had been sent out to accomplish. He took another sip of his drink, looked at his watch for the hundredth time, and stared at the telephone. "Just a trifle awkward! A rather misleading label in my view".

Funny thing about labels, those little things you stuck on the outside of a box, on a pantry shelf, perhaps, or on a file sometimes. They were meant to be descriptive, give a person a good notion of the contents. How well they performed, of course, depended on how complete, how precise the label was. For example, a label of 'Shoes' gave a general notion, but left a lot to the imagination, wasn't particularly helpful if you were trying to be efficient or effective. 'Shoes - 18" black Wellies, mens size 11 1/2, well-worn with several small holes in left sole' gave a much better picture. Yes, reading that latter description would give most people familiar with the language a very good idea of what lay inside. 

The sticky part came when you weren't dealing with physical objects, but with situations. There, a lot depended on the point of view, even the overall philosophy, of the person creating and attaching the label, and a great deal on the point of view of the person dealing with the situation first hand. It was amazing, sometimes, how far apart those points of view could be. 

(And that was without even getting started with the futility of attaching labels to individuals! Just get Meghada started on the labels on her file and those of Craig Garrison and his men, and you'd get a bloody earful about differing points of view!)

Take the subject of war-time missions, for example. For some reason, there were those who would never even consider labeling a box containing a pair of Wellies with holes in the bottoms as being in 'fine condition, perfectly serviceable', yet thought it quite acceptable, even laudable, to do just that thing when it came to missions for the Special Forces and Special Ops teams. It seems there were those who thought it just too 'discouraging' to use any of the more 'uncomfortable' labels for a situation, thinking it best to 'keep a positive outlook'. 

While that might be well and good in some areas of endeavor, (though that was highly debatable, in Richards' opinion), it could be rather disconcerting in the area of espionage and intelligence missions. Particularly for those involved in those missions, either on the ground or waiting back home.

Sitting over a drink one evening, waiting for news of Garrison and his team and that desperate mission they'd been sent out on - the particulars only coming to light once Private Ames had done a clandestine strategic run of his own in the classified materials section - Kevin Richards found himself thinking about some of his experiences in the past year, placing labels hither and yon. Anything to take his mind off that telephone that just refused to ring. In particular, the label 'Perhaps Just A Trifle Awkward', the label Colonel Butterfield had apparently stuck on that file he'd browsed earlier.

Well, he had always felt he had more than enough experience with 'just a trifle awkward', was fairly conversant with the notion. That little visit with Felane and Lupan had promised to be 'just a trifle awkward', after all. A reluctantly fond smile came to his face as he remembered that occasion.


	2. Just A Trifle Awkward?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was awkward. Hell, it was MORE than awkward! At least, it should have been awkward. Well, shouldn't it? Now he was torn between thinking it was and thinking it wasn't, and not sure which was most disturbing or confusing.
> 
> It takes a road trip to clarify matters - a road trip, a bottomless pot of coffee, a little parental intervention, and an afternoon nap. Suddenly, it wasn't disturbing, confusing OR awkward, not anymore.

It was such an innocuous phrase - 'just a trifle awkward'. Rather as if you'd discovered a whisker on your buttered bun that it would be ever so rude to mention to your hostess, but weren't inclined to swallow either. Something relatively inconsequential, in fact, something easy to fix with a bland smile, a little slight of hand, some offhand word. Nothing of any real importance.

Amazing how misleading that interpretation was, at least to Kevin Richards' way of thinking, or perhaps it was more the careless and inappropriate way some people tended to use the phrase. The Grandmother of Clan O'Donnell had done just that, in his opinion, when she'd had one last drink with him before his departure from Homeland. "Don't worry overly much, my boy. Yes, it might be just a trifle awkward in the beginning, but you'll get over that soon enough, I should think."

It wasn't like he had not experienced awkward situations before. He had, plenty of them. He'd become somewhat of an expert at handling them, in fact.

Walking into his father's office at age twelve, to find the older man with his trouser contents being adjusted by the smirking scullery maid - that had been just a trifle awkward.

Watching, at age fourteen, his learned mother matter-of-factly and without hesitation copy and claim as part of her own doctoral thesis a Swiss paper written but never published, since the original writer had died of an infectious disease before that could happen. That had been just a trifle awkward.

As a new cadet, following the direction of his unit leader as to proper behavior and protocol, politely asking that rather husky woman in the deep purple gown to dance at the regimental soiree, well, that hadn't been awkward til he realized he was then dancing with his new regiment commander. No, perhaps not even then, not til he found his buttocks being fondled with such appreciation. Now that had been a trifle awkward. 

Sternly confronting a young Julie about overspending her allowance and not making it back to the flat before her designated curfew, declaring she had earned a month's grounding, along with foregoing said allowance for the next two weeks? Well, since both activities were linked to that surprise party she'd decided to give him on the occasion of his latest promotion, yes, that had been a trifle awkward.

Getting himself shot in a amateur display of bravado and total lack of common sense in a back alley in Budapesh while on a simple contact assignment, and having to be pulled out by the skin of his teeth, that had been embarrassing, but not really awkward. Well, not til he realized he'd been pulled out by a female, one near his own age but who insisted on treating him like he was a careless ten-year-old who'd gotten into an easily avoidable scrape. Even THAT he'd not considered awkward, (annoying as hell, yes, being gently scolded by Felane with such incongruous maternal disapproval, especially with her own children - even to the youngest ones - joining in the tsk-tsking). But explaining the whole mess to his commanding officer, including how he ended up a quarter of the world away from where he'd been sent? THAT had been just a trifle awkward.

He had ruefully decided he was becoming rather an expert in situations some would label 'just a trifle awkward'. He had learned how to handle them - with a firm determination, a detached countenance and a minimum of fuss (well, usually, unless the O'Donnell sisters were concerned, then all bets were off.)

Of course, he was still more than a little embarrassed at the occasional awkward situation he'd only recognized, really understood, in retrospect. Those were much more difficult to brush off casually, primarily because they pointed to him being not nearly so observant as one would expect from a seasoned military officer.

Well, take that incident in Meghada O'Donnell's kitchen, for example. It had been a good week later before he'd awakened from a sound sleep to realize, in total horror, just what he'd really walked in on! Not just a little frisky behavior; no, those two had actually been . . . Well, the less said about that, the better! Now, of course, a considerable amount of time later, and with a broader understanding of the situation, he considered himself lucky. At least it had just been Goniff and Meghada. It COULD have been Goniff and Craig Garrison, after all!! Now that would have been MORE than a trifle awkward! 

Still, that recognition led to him forming a new habit, one of knocking before opening any closed doors, and if a door was already open, well, a brisk call of greeting from several feet away was surely only prudent. Well, at least when he wasn't on a clandestine mission, of course; then all bets were off.

But the situation that turned his life upside down? The one that started, well sort of anyway, at the crystal bridge, that place where his life took a hard right turn never to return to its former path? Surely THAT earned the designation of awkward if anything ever had. And not 'just a trifle awkward', either. No, that was flat out awkward, with no qualifiers, no matter what the Grandmother had claimed.

It was awkward. Hell, it was MORE than awkward! At least, it should have been awkward. Well, shouldn't it? Now he was torn between thinking it was and thinking it wasn't, and not sure which was most disturbing or confusing.

He remembered watching Felane's baby-bump grow, teasing his rescuer about having to stop running around dark alleys, dodging bullets and knife blades and bringing home any more 'stray pups' like himself now that she was going to be a mother yet again. Lupan had laughed ruefully, saying "well, it hasn't stopped her yet, Kevin," as Felane lovingly stroked the lump that would eventually be named Coura.

Ciena had been, what, five then? He'd been in his mid-twenties then; had awakened, groggy from that bullet wound, to find her and her brothers and sisters surrounding his bed, trying to figure out this new 'pet' their mother had brought home with her this time.

Well, Ciena was twenty now. That made Coura fifteen headed to sixteen within the month (or more likely fifteen headed to thirty, knowing her as well as he did). Yes, it should have been extremely awkward, that new-found knowledge that the three of them were Bonded, joined by Fate or Fortune or, as they claimed, by their Sweet Mother Erdu's grace.

Yet, somehow it hadn't been, awkward, that is, not at that time. Not overly so, anyway. Well, standing on a crystal bridge in the middle of nowhere, overhanging a void, and searching every particle of your being for answers, answers that would determine your continued sanity, the continued existence of you and the two who had accompanied you - that rather put all else into perspective.

They'd agreed, between the three of them, that as a sop to his 'overly-conservative' upbringing and his 'unnecessary but somewhat endearing fastidiousness', (their words, not his!), that Coura would bid her time in patience. 

Somehow, the snort that had accompanied that statement hadn't been very indicative of 'patience', but he decided to take what he could get! With Coura, you just had to take that attitude if you wanted to maintain any semblance of sanity. He'd had far too many face-offs with her over the years to think otherwise. That long stern lecture he'd gotten from her, detailing his many shortcomings and areas for needed improvement, all when she was eight years old, would never be forgotten. Especially when, to his chagrin, time had proved her right in so many areas.

In the meanwhile, he and Ciena would take the process of becoming a couple as it came, in its own time. 

Yet, it DIDN'T come, the process, the becoming a couple, not yet, and that confused him as much as the rest of the whole bizarre situation did. Oh, they were very happy with each other, they truly were, all three of them. At least he was, and he thought they were.

He came home from his work, either at HQ or across the Channel (since he was a 'desk officer' in name only), or sometimes even farther, to warm smiles and warm arms and gentle cosseting that made him feel he truly BELONGED someplace, was truly WANTED, for perhaps the first time in his life, other than those times he'd spent at Kilmeade Manor with his uncles, and that was, of course, a totally different matter.

Well, sometimes he came home to both of them, sometimes to only one of them; after all, they had other things going on in their lives as well, what with the Clan and the war and various mysterious doings. On the rare occasion he came home to an empty flat, he found it almost unbearably lonely. For a man who'd spent most of his life alone, in one manner or another, that seemed just odd. You would have thought he would have been used to the being alone, not so easily enthralled by the NOT being alone.

But, he was starting to wonder if they were content with this rather platonic state of affairs, and if they were, shouldn't he strive harder to be content with it as well? For, to be quite honest, he wasn't, not really, not that he intended to make an issue of it. He'd never felt he was a man of particularly strong passions, and what passions, inclinations he did have he'd learned to keep under strict control, for a various number of reasons.

And perhaps it was best this way. He'd been blessed beyond all comprehension; he knew that. Still, he was starting to feel the effects, the strain, and it was becoming much more difficult to deal with those effects {"thank heaven for cold showers, but with even cold water being rationed . . . !"}. Yet, he didn't want to bring up the issue, make them uncomfortable, somehow ruin what they had together. All in all, he was in a predicament. 

It was on a short family visit to Felane and Lupan that he'd found himself discussing the awkwardness, or lack thereof, (process and the lack thereof) with Ciena and Coura's parents. Now, if ANYTHING should have been awkward, he would have expected THAT to be. That it HADN'T been, (at least to begin with) was just one more example of just how differently Clan O'Donnell tended to think about things than some others. Well, and perhaps just how wrapped up in the situation he himself had become.

They'd been friends for many years. He and Felane were much of an age, Lupan a good twelve years older. Their differences were many, certainly; they were not casual differences, either, were far deeper, on a cultural, perhaps even on an instinctual, level. Still, he had discussed many a difficult situation with them, received guidance and comfort, taken them to task many a time, had them do the same with him. Neither side bore grudges, even if their arguments changed no one's opinion, which was often the case.

Now, somehow, over that seemingly bottomless pot of coffee in their kitchen, he'd found himself discussing his domestic situation and just how odd it truly was. It said something for his state of mind (his rather CONFUSED state of mind) that it was only when Felane choked on her coffee and abruptly left the table and dashed into the rear of the house that he flushed, realizing just how highly inappropriate this whole conversation was. He replayed that last complaint of his, and couldn't refrain from a groan of sheer humiliation.

"It's not that we're not comfortable with each other; we are. It's almost like we're TOO comfortable with each other, not that that makes any sense. I'm twice Ciena's age, more than that for Coura. I was there when Coura was born, for heaven's sake! We're living in the same quarters, have committed to a relationship together. Yet, it's like we're a long-established family unit, like we've been married so long, the more intimate parts of the relationship just aren't important enough to bother with. I love them, you know that; but perhaps this was a mistake. Perhaps I was right earlier, a few years ago, when I wondered if I just was meant for all that, well, intensity, if you know what I mean. And if so, this is really not fair for them, is it? They deserve more, surely. Though, I have to admit that they seem as comfortable with the present state of affairs as I am, and I'm not quite sure how to take that either. And it's not like I'm UNINTERESTED, you know; I am, increasingly so, enough that . . ." 

THAT was when Felane had dashed from the room, and Kevin wanted to sink through the floor at how totally appalling she must have found even that rather convoluted reference to her daughters and . . . 

There was something about Lupan's face that caught Kevin's attention, stopped that thought dead in its tracks. Then, that sudden burst of laughter rang out, loud and clear.

"Kevin, I think you and I need to have a little talk. I think I still remember how to explain it properly, from when Douglas and I had our sit down. I'm getting older, though; this might be good practice for when the youngest ones need to hear this." The triplets - two boys, one girl - had just been born a month or so ago, supposedly the last of Felane and Lupan's brood, though with them, that wasn't something Kevin was willing to bet on.

Kevin wasn't so sure he appreciated the laughter, or the implication that he needed to hear a 'birds and bees' lecture. But that wasn't what he ended up getting, from Lupan or from the pink-faced and smirking Felane when she came back into the room to be greeted by a mockingly stern admonition from Lupan.

"If you are QUITE finished laughing, my love, I think Kevin really does need things explained to him, and perhaps you would be able to do that better than I, since they are very much YOUR daughters!"

Later, stretched across the wide bed in the guest room, he thought over all he'd been given in way of explanation.

"It's not that they are uninterested, by any means; never think that. They are waiting, trying to make you comfortable, Kevin, trying to let the pace gradually adjust to suit you. They know you come from a highly different background; Erdu knows you've lectured them about that often enough! I believe they feel you've had such a great deal to adjust to in the fairly recent past, between them, the Clan, Goniff and Meghada, and Craig Garrison, and his guys, meeting Caeide's Peter, and everything else, the Moon Path experience, INCLUDING meeting the Grandmother, which is a nerve-wracking experience for anybody. Well, they're right in all of that, of course, though I think they just MIGHT be over-thinking things, which I have told them."

She'd grinned at him, "maybe they picked that up from you and Craig, because I'm not sure which of the two of you rank highest at that little bit of nonsense."

"But as for their seeming lack of interest in the more earthy parts of a relationship with you, I know they both have requested every single one of the 'calming' tea recipes I have for females," pausing to frown at her Bondmate sternly, who'd started making those odd noises again, along with a sotto voce comment that sounded something like "for all the good THOSE do, in my experience, not if your level of interest in the 'earthy passions' is any indication!! Care to take a look in the nursery??"

"I said I HAVE them, Lupan, not that I use them! Well, not since you finally got over your OWN shyness and misgivings, though I drank enough of the stuff during that time to get a bellyfull for a lifetime! I still cannot tolerate the smell of beer, from all the hops I digested, along with the chasteberry, valerian, skullcap, not to mention the Chinese privet, which was not only nasty but difficult to come by in any quantities! I was almost to the point of trying a few teas on YOU, my love, those with the opposite reaction, before you finally decided to stop being so determined to wait! I was getting a little worried I'd kill my own desire permanently if I kept drinking the nasty stuff," waiting patiently til Lupan stopped that insufferable snorting again before she continued.

"So far my daughters haven't asked for THOSE recipes, ones to tempt YOUR appetite, but I imagine their patience is wearing a little thin. Coura might accept, though not quite willingly, the need to continue with her own frequent dosage of tisane for awhile longer, but Ciena is probably quite ready to abandon the stuff, if she's not already done so."

Now he wondered, tossing over all he'd heard, while he waited for the sisters to return from their visiting various cousins in the area. When they came through the connecting door, laughing and smiling and telling him about all sorts of interesting things, he tried to keep his mind on what they were saying, rather on just how those smiles, the warmth in their eyes, seemed to be affecting him. He was sure he'd been successful, though that subsequent cold shower HAD helped.

A fast lunch, then everyone scattered again, Felane off to the horse barns, Lupan off to the kennels. Coura had decided to go with Felane, saying she wanted a good look at that new arrival from Luri's line, and from the talk, it looked like Ciena would be checking out the latest litter from a daughter of their sister Caeide's wolfhound Estelle, one that was almost becoming a legend in her own right.

Kevin was rather at loose ends, and weary from the long drive on top of two long heavy days playing catch-up in order to free this precious bit of time away, decided Felane's suggestion of a nap wouldn't go amiss. He'd stretched out on top of the bed, settled in easy enough, waking to the sound of the shower going. He turned his head in that direction when he heard the water stop, started to give a greeting to whichever of his ladies was in there. The words died in his throat, realizing he didn't recognize the woman standing there.

Well, he did, of course, but not entirely. That seductive, knowing, ever-so-slow smile was one he'd never seen on Ciena's face before. (He'd seen something similar on Coura's face once, to be sure; but that had been when she'd been much younger, no more than twelve, trying to totally disconcert him after he'd annoyed her by some bit of interference in her oldest sister's personal life - and succeeding quite well, he had to admit, the disconcerting, that is.) {"Scared the blazes out of me, to be quite honest!"}

He cleared his throat, and his voice was raspy, "I believe you've lost your towel?"

That smile increased as she cocked one eyebrow and glanced down at her still damp but totally visible bare body, "ah, I do believe you're right, Kevin. So careless of me!" but her slow deliberate pace toward the bed didn't falter in the least. One knee was placed on the bed, the other joining soon after, as she made a slow crawl towards him. In some detached part of his mind he noted just how flattering that pose was, her lush pink-tipped breasts swaying gently, her rounded bottom doing much the same, but in a more deliberate fashion.

She hovered over him slightly, faint pout on her lips, one finger gently tracing his cheekbone, then his lips.

"But you . . . Here you are in bed, in the middle of the day, fully clothed. There's just something . . . wrong about that, to my way of thinking."

He cleared his throat painfully, "you think I should get up?"

That smile was now that of a houri, a siren, "it seems to me that's no longer in question. But perhaps the clothes are a mistake? Yes, I truly think they are. Here, let me help take care of that little matter," tugging at the buttons of his shirt. 

Somehow the shirt was on the floor, and she was now straddling his thighs, slowly unbuckling his belt. "Yes, I think this will be much better, Kevin, much more comfortable." Well, he was hardly in a position to argue with her, nor did he have any inclination to do so, even if he'd found the breath. He had a feeling he was going to need every bit of air he could force his lungs to take in.

"Should I ask what you have in mind?" he found himself asking, and yes, his lungs were starting to feel the pressure of the moment.

"I thought you'd never ask," she purred, and as she poured out her plans for the next hour or two, as his trousers joined his shirt on the floor beside the bed, he found himself with the most incongruously ill-timed thought, {"well, it appears she's stopped drinking the tea."}. It was the last clear thought he had for quite some time.

Enjoying a drink after dinner, his mind drifted to the afternoon and he smiled. There were ever so many words he could use to describe that lovely interlude, but surprisingly, awkward just wasn't one of them. Oh, and he might just have been mistaken about having been given less than his share of the more earthy inclinations. Which was probably good, considering.


	3. Wrong Label

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The leaders of the Special Forces teams had varying words for the types of labels some of the Handlers and Directors were attaching to the various missions. They ran the gamut from the extremely polite "I say, old boy, there seems to be a bit of confusion." to the rather less polite, "Walk in the park, my bleedin' arse!" The reaction from the sole Australian in the group probably fell in the latter group, but only a few really could understand what he was saying enough to know for sure.

"Just a trifle awkward."

Yes, Kevin Richards felt he had a good feel for what the term meant, but obviously some of his fellow Handlers and Directors had a different viewpoint. Butterfield labeling this latest mission Garrison and his men, along with one of the Contract Agents, had been sent on as 'perhaps just a trifle awkward' was a case in point. There were many labels Kevin would have attached to that job; 'suicidal', 'insane', 'highly inadviseable' were just three of them. 'A trifle awkward' was NOT on the list. And, honestly, he should know.

He mused on that, sipping at his drink, waiting for the phone to ring, letting his far-too-tense mind drift.

He didn't even have to wonder what had set his mind in this odd train, of taking events and attaching descriptive labels, labels somehow supposedly defining the relative difficulty and possibly the importance of the various events. It had been that series of meetings earlier in the month with the various of the Special Forces and Special Operations teams. At those meetings, the team leaders had plenty to say on the subject, and they'd obviously felt no inclination to hold back. Seems they were more than a little put out at being told up front 'this one's a walk in the park', 'just a piece of cake', 'this one might get a tad sticky', 'this one might be just a trifle awkward' or something similarly inane, and then finding themselves up to their necks in snakes, spiders and boiling oil.

Garrison and Ainsley and Davis, out of all the team leaders, had been particularly outspoken, each having received one of those designations for their last assignments. 

While Davis, the remarkably foul-mouthed Australian, had been especially loud, luckily for his career most of what he'd said had been couched in terms most of the higher-ranking observers had been unable to interpret. Richards had had enough contact with the Aussies to have to choke back a laugh when Davis referred to one of the new Handlers as a 'bloody wanker too busy getting himself a wristy to ask the right bloody questions', and the supervising Colonel a 'derro wombat what needed to take his bleedin swag and take a long dive into a billabong to clear his bloody head'. Well, Davis DID have a point, more than one of them, but when he had glanced up to see Craig Garrison's face, well, that had been a lovely moment of shared understanding. Seems Garrison had had a bit of contact with the Aussies too! It probably was best neither of those two worthies being discussed were in the room, though; Richards rather had the feeling they'd have been able to get the general drift without having to understand the specific meaning of those terms. The others present certainly had, from the roar of approval.

Ainsley was still boiling about being given maps to study for his last minute ("you have to leave tomorrow afternoon so you'll have to focus rather quickly, old boy.") little 'walk in the park', and after spending a sleepless night trying to memorize the area in and around Lucerne before spending the next morning downing black coffee and reviewing the background file that had arrived only moments before, had been jolted by the casual mention in the file notes, 'you will meet the two representatives at the mid-point between Metz and Bar-le-Duc. The village name is Merson, and you will meet with the local barber, a man by the name of Anton.' 

By then Ainsley had stopped reading, flipped back to the maps. Yes, they were of Switzerland, and yes, Lucerne had been marked with a red star. Now, he knew damned well . . . Well, didn't he?? He'd yelled for Briggs, "hey, Lenny. Grab me a map of France, will you?"

It hadn't taken a minute to confirm what he'd remembered from another little job. His language had been astonishingly polite in his conversation with the Handler.

"I say, old boy, there seems to be a bit of confusion in the details. Are we heading to France or are we headed to Switzerland? The briefing material seems rather to point in both directions, you see. Might affect the overall mission, I wouldn't doubt, if we guess wrong, you know."

He'd even refrained from slamming down the telephone. Of course, the wallpaper had later peeled from the walls of his make-shift office at the sheer heat of his profanity after he'd ever so carefully laid the receiver back on the hook. Briggs hadn't helped with his laconic comment "wonder where the pilot was gonna be told to drop us, Italy? Luserna, most likely, maybe Locana, maybe Lomazzo? Can see us wandering around the whole freaking continent asking the locals how to get to Merson and do they know a barber name of Anton! Dumb shits!" 

As Ainsley had growled out to Garrison, "'walk in the park', my bleedin arse - bloody tour of Europe is more like it!"

Garrison had a few words of his own about that "just a Sunday stroll" he and his team had been sent on - the 'Sunday stroll' had lasted almost five weeks, had taken them through two countries and pitted them against both the German and the Italian armies, along with a run-in with partisans Garrison never DID figure out, except that they were damned unfriendly. 

In a way, though, he'd been relieved. At least, after hearing some of the other experiences, he'd told Richards he was at least less inclined to believe now that it was personal, that HQ was trying to drop him and the guys down a proverbial well. Of course, that only switched Garrison's own internal label of events from 'malicious intent' to 'well-intentioned but highly idiotic misdirection'. When you came right down to it, they'd still ended up teetering on the loose rim of that well, whichever label was applied.

Richards had been ready to bang his own head on the table after his subsequent meetings with the various Handlers and their Directors. While some already had a clear picture (primarily those who worked in the field occasionally) and didn't indulge in such understatements, some others obviously were coming to a new and better understanding of the situation. But a few? The total lack of comprehension, the 'what on earth is all the fuss about??' look on some of those faces was enough to make Richards wish he had Davis there to explain things to them personally. Maybe the heavily colloquialismic speech of the burly Australian would have gotten through where Richards' more precise English had not.

Having been in the field more than a little, having heard the bullets flying over his head, along with having the uncomfortable experience of having a couple of those bullets make contact, he knew HE didn't want to hear 'walk in the park' when a more apt description would have proved more helpful in making appropriate plans.

Now, he waited. And waited. And waited. And that damned telephone STILL didn't ring, either the one in his office or the one at the flat.

Of course, he had other duties, and he attended to them diligently, but part of his mind kept going back to that first note he'd found at their flat in their secret 'message spot'. 

"Been tapped for a job with big sister's laddie and his friends. Told it might be 'just a trifle awkward', for what ever that's worth. Taking bear repellent, just as a precaution. Take care while I'm gone. LCN". 

He'd smiled at that 'LCN - Love, Ciena', but frowned at the rest. That had been bad enough, Ciena off on a job, but at least it was with Garrison and his team. They all knew each other, worked well together. But 'bear repellent'?? Could they actually be headed to Russian territory? Or did it just mean they were to be in contact with Russian operatives? There was a limit to what could be safely expressed, especially in what obviously had been a hurriedly scrawled note.

Coura had no more information, and they'd settled down to their regular activities, concerned but dealing. They'd spent an inordinate amount of time discussing just how competent Ciena was, how competent Garrison and the guys were, Coura even taking a run down to Brandonshire to let herself be given a pep talk by Meghada, one she'd shared with Kevin upon her return.

Then he'd gone on a little 'jaunt' to Lisbon, come back a week later to find another note. 

"Seems that 'just a trifle awkward' situation was underestimated 'just a tad'. (See, I can do it too!) Big sister M, cousin CY and a F/F dabbling their fingers; me too. Back as soon as possible, maybe with a bearskin rug for the guest room. LCO" 

This time it was more difficult to find even a reluctant smile at that 'Love - Coura' closing.

That had been two weeks ago, and the flat was starting to echo to the sounds of footsteps that should have been there, the sound of voices he'd become so quickly accustomed to. That copy of the mission file Jeffrey Ames had managed to 'find' pointed to one very deep well, with the stonework very shaky indeed around the top edges. 

His worry wasn't helped any by the fact that he had no obvious outlet for his concern, no need to be included on any updates, at least not so far as HQ was concerned. He hadn't been the Handler on the job, and even though he was usually considered the primary Handler for Ciena, as he had been for the other sisters, still, no one directly involved in this job felt he had any right to know anything. If it hadn't been for Jeffrey's snooping and a few anonymous Friends and/or Family, he'd have lost his temper before now (his temper or his mind, one of the two).

Well, staring at the telephone wasn't doing any good, and tomorrow looked to be full with briefings and debriefings and yet another meeting with two new Handlers who didn't seem to understand their duties as well as you might expect, at least in his opinion. In fact, he had come to the decided conclusion that they had a firm and determined hold on the wrong end of the bloody stick!

He heaved a deep sigh, swallowed the last of the whiskey in his glass and made his way in for bed. Not that he slept much, but at least he was in a prone position for the minimum amount of time.

He'd been in the Commissary getting a cup of something out of a pot labeled 'coffee' (talk about misleading labels!) when he'd seen a smiling Colonel Butterfield walk in. His hopes were aroused when the Colonel spotted him and came over to greet him, but seemingly Butterfield was only interested in talking about the new training program, the one those two disappointing specimens had just completed. 

"Quite effective, I must say. Feel the men came out with just the proper attitude. I have very high expectations of them all."

Richards raised a skeptical brow. "I found them rather disappointing, myself, Colonel. The two I've worked with didn't seem to have much grasp of the human element in the equation, and the importance of taking into account the personalities involved." 

That got him a blank stare, then a huff of laughter.

"Ah, right, very good one there! The human element, personalities. How amusing. I'd not heard you were such a wag, Major. Yes, we ARE trying to downplay that bit of nonsense; can't believe the focus it was starting to get recently. Most detrimental to the whole process, of course."

Richards refrained from speaking his mind, since he still had hopes of getting an update on Garrison's team. But when he asked, as casually as he thought he could get by with, "by the way, any word on Garrison and his mission?" he got a totally blank look before Butterfield's face showed any sign of recognition.

"What? Oh, THEM. No, I don't suppose so. I'm sure my adjutant would have said something. I don't like to micromanage these things, you know," with a superior look that all of a sudden Kevin Richards was sorely tempted to wipe off with a solid blow of his fist. {"Just how long overdue would they need to be before he decided it was acceptable to at least make an inquiry??"}

A message was waiting for him when he got back to his office, delivered by a highly-supportive Jeffrey Ames. Well, Private Ames had a vested interest in this whole matter as well, being first a Friend to Clan O'Donnell, and then almost immediately, a full-fledged member of the Family, though that was as little-known around HQ as was a great deal of the situation surrounding Richards' involvement.

"Patrick thought you might like to have a drink with him later, when you're off duty. He suggested your club, around 7:30? He seemed in a good frame of mind, Major," Jeffrey added, seeing that sudden tensing as his commanding officer realized the potential of the message. He'd seen Richards' patience fraying more day by day, his tolerance for idiocy reduced to the bare minimum of civility. Around here, Jeffrey knew, you needed a heck of a lot of that tolerance to make it through the day and through the job.

Well, Jeffrey could understand that, certainly, Richards' current state of mind. As far as he knew, Ian wasn't working that particular job, but there was no guarantee of that. They might be committed to each other, and certainly were, but they each had their own duties and responsibilities, with Ian's including flying here, there and wherever the Family sent him. Their time together was, therefore, limited and communication was sometimes sparse. No, it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that Ian was involved in this fiasco along with his sisters.

A brief pause, then "yes, Jeffrey, I think that might be rather pleasant. If you would let Patrick know? I need to finish those debriefing reports and get them up to the next level if I'm to leave in time to meet him."

It would be a long afternoon; hopefully no one would do anything to try what little was left of his resolve toward gentlemanly behavior. Jeffrey Ames did his best in that endeavor, redirecting Major Johns, then later Major Kingston, neither of whom would have helped matters one little bit. The one thing he couldn't turn away was the unwelcome news that Richards would be headed out on a mission in the morning, replacing an officer who'd been injured. 

It was with a great deal of relief Jeffrey looked at the clock, went and tapped on the door. 

"Best be headed out, Sir. There's traffic to consider, you know." The unspoken "and you'll let me know?" was answered with a knowing nod, one well-mingled with appreciation, knowing how the situation had to be weighing on the young man as well, and having overheard enough to know Jeffrey had kept some major annoyances at arms' length earlier. That it was an appropriate, if unintended pun, he recognized only later, after his conversation with Patrick.

Charles nodded politely as Richards entered the room. "Your guest is awaiting you in the rear of the bar, sir. He requested whiskey; shall I bring you the same?" 

Receiving a quick nod of thanks, Charles moved away, letting Richards find his own way through the august halls of the gentlemens' club his father had been so proud of being a member of. Well, no, that wasn't quite right. His arrogant, self-important father would never had imagined that he would NOT have been a member here; he had been the fifth generation to do so, after all, was certainly well entitled to be a member. 

Richards wasn't sure HE belonged here, didn't appear all that often, but it was a convenient spot for a private or semi-private conversation, like now. Yes, he could have invited Patrick to the flat; he could have gone to Patrick's place, or Michael's or any other of the family, but they were trying to minimize that kind of contact. While there was SOME, none of them wanted anyone at HQ to realize it was a deeply personal, familial connection, not a casual friendship. It was too valuable an ace-in-the-hole to give up without dire cause.

Patrick smiled when he saw Kevin, not an all out joyous smile, but a fairly reassuring one. Charles was right behind with that glass of whiskey, and once they were alone again, Kevin looked the question he didn't seem to have the ability to ask out loud.

"Yes, we got them all out of the hole they were in; they're more than a little battered but all breathing and will all turn out nicely, I'd think. The bears don't play nice, even when you're supposedly on the same side, and there was the usual foul-up with the intel, of course. Exit was shot to hell, literally, mind you, and they ended up nursing their wounds in an ice-cold mudpit of a deserted village."

"Yes, they got the job done, though I wouldn't have blamed them for just throwing up their hands and saying the hell with it, but you know our Craig - stubborn as all get-out once he sets his mind on something. Believe you me, Meghada had a few choice words for him; it's probably just as well he doesn't speak Celtic, and was only half-conscious at the time. Of course, I'm sure he got the gist of it. Of course, she's right there beside them, helping make sure they all get home again. I imagine she's already thought up half a dozen meals to fix to put a few ounces back on 'her lads'."

"All the sisters are upright and functioning, though they've taken some damage as well. Nothing overly dramatic, so don't go worrying yourself to pieces! Still, the whole lot of them are stuck for awhile; safe enough, but not ready to come back because - and wait for it!! - there was this German General that Craig spotted, and this conversation he overheard concerning that general and some Russian scientist - and, well, it appears there's a few little oddments to be taken into account. You KNOW how he is!" 

Kevin wasn't sure whether he wanted to lay his head on the table in relief, or pound it on that same surface at the idea of 'a few little oddments' that had to be taken into account. Yes, he knew quite well how Craig Garrison was! Still, Patrick didn't seem overly concerned, so that was reassuring. 

But he himself was headed out on the morrow, having being co-opted at the last minute to fill in for Major Reece who'd taken a tumble down a flight of stairs during a police raid at a local establishment probably best not mentioned. 

"But if they get back before I do, Patrick . . . ". He paused. What did he want to say? Have Patrick tell them to stay put in one place? Have Patrick tell them he'd missed them? Have Patrick tell them . . ? He let the sentence fade into nothingness, and took another sip of his whiskey, knowing there really weren't any words.

 

He came back from that totally wasted trip to Brussels to be debriefed and released to make his weary way home. It was well after hours for his Aide to be around, and he could only hope one of the brothers had left a message of some kind at his flat. He went up the steps, finding that last flight almost more than he could handle, as weary as he was.

A turn of the key and he was inside, and his heart stilled. The air was clean and sweet, not stale like he'd expected to find it, and if it wasn't exactly warm, it wasn't dead cold as it should have been. 

"Kevin? Ah, you're home!" and the quick slide of soft-soled slippers across the floor found him with his arms full of warm woman. 

"Ciena!" he whispered against her hair, blinking away the moisture he'd as soon she not see. 

A knowing chuckle, "aye, Ciena. And Coura will be here in a little bit. She's out seeing what she can round up to fill the larder. Seems pickings are more than a bit slim in there. I think even the mice gave up and moved out!"

They were curled up together on the big couch, the quick meal being satisfying more for the fact that it had been eaten together than for any special culinary features. It turned out pickings were a bit slim in even the more out of the way shops that time of night as well. Still, it left them with no hunger pangs, and now, a drink in hand, they were relishing the togetherness and the privacy. 

"You've gone through debriefing?" he asked, knowing he'd not seen them at HQ, but then he'd come in and gone out the back way and had been stuck in his own rather futile debriefing for a goodly amount of time. Just how much time should it take to say "the contact was a con job, undertaken only for the upfront money, there was no plot, and all I accomplished was to end up annoying an elderly lace maker and her cat."

"Aye, such as it was. Well, me and Craig and the guys. Coura they hadn't a clue about, of course, nor the others, and that's the way it's best to keep it. Colonel Butterfield acted like it was a dreadful imposition, us arriving just as he was leaving for an evening engagement, started some nonsense about delaying til morning when he had more time - with all of US stuck in the debriefing room waiting on his convenience, all for security purposes of course. Craig had to get firm, and I'm afraid I threw quite the hissy fit. I imagine I'll have a note or two in my file, but really, Kevin, it was too much. Casino looked like he'd been run over by a truck, and actually, that's pretty much what happened! None of us were in pristine shape, well, how could we have been??! 'Just a trifle awkward' my aunt Nellie!!"

"I'd like to show HIM what 'just a trifle awkward' really means, since he obviously doesn't have a flipping clue!" Coura interjected with a scowl. "In fact, I think I just might put my mind to something appropriate!"

Richards thought about cautioning her against any such thing, but on second hand, decided against it. Maybe she was just venting, but knowing Coura, she could be dead serious. And, truthfully, he thought it might prove downright beneficial if the good Colonel got an up close and personal view of 'just a trifle awkward'. Maybe a good view of what the term actually might mean could prevent him from so casually sticking that label on a mission better described in other ways.

Well, whether it was 'beneficial' or not, it certainly was 'just a trifle awkward', though no one ever figured out just who had sent Colonel Butterfield that package with the ever-so-coy note. 

"Darling, I do SO love you in blue! Wear this for our next meeting, I implore you! I'll bring the feathers and the wine! Signed, Your Own Loving Bitzie". 

The desk sergeant who opened it, as part of standard operating procedures, was certainly impressed, as was everyone else in the department. As one of the corporals told his mates in the Commissary, "aint never seen that much silk and ruffles and flounces and ribbons and lace and such, least not since the war started. Pretty thing, of course, if a bit overly fancy for my taste. Wouldn't mind finding one like it for my Mary, you know; she 'as a liking for such things, the more frills the better. Don't know the Colonel was as appreciative as you'd think though, for as expensive as that bit of flimsy must 'ave been. And blue might be 'is color, but not when 'e's gone all blistery red like that. Must 'ave been made up special, too; can't imagine anything big enough to fit 'im already being made up and waiting in the shops."

Kevin Richards heard the tale, heard the description, and remembered the giggles coming from Coura's room a few nights ago, and that exclamation from Ciena, "but it's such a lovely shade of blue, Coura! It's rather a shame to waste all that expensive material, though!" and Coura's soothing response, "hardly a waste, big sister! Perhaps 'just a trifle awkward', but hardly a waste!" The laughter was hearty and contagious, enough Kevin had walked to the door to find out just what had caused it. And he had to admit, it WAS a striking shade of blue.

He sincerely hoped he could get that imagined picture out of his head sometime soon - the beefy moustached Colonel Butterfield wearing that explosion of blue, all flounces and ruffles and peek-a-boo slits and all. 

He sincerely worked at that the next day when he made it a point to sit down across from the sullen officer in the Commissary. Butterfield had growled at him, "suppose you heard what some scalawag pulled. Damned embarrassing! Humiliating! I'll never live it down! Why, the very idea! If I ever find out who sent that package, I swear . . ." 

Butterfield would be ever grateful for the calm support his fellow officer offered him then. 

"Now, Colonel, it's not that bad, really. Just a trifle awkward. But I'm sure it will all die down soon. Something new is always making the grapevine, and the old will soon be forgotten. Still, yes, for now, I have to admit it IS just a trifle awkward. But it could have been worse, of course."

"Worse?? How do you figure that??"

"Well, it could have been delivered to your home in your absence. Now that would TRULY have been just a trifle awkward, having your wife open that package, read the note." 

Butterfield was struck dumb by the very thought. His Regine was NOT the understanding type!

Richards took a thoughtful sip of coffee. 

"Now, that is such an interesting phrase, 'just a trifle awkward', you know, at least I've always found it so. Can mean so many different things to different people. Probably needs to be used a bit more sparingly, perhaps. But I must admit, in that case, I would have to agree with your designation. Yes, just a trifle awkward."


	4. Not The Least Bit Awkward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title says it all.

Kevin's POV:  
He wasn't sure if he was more relieved or nervous when Coura's eighteenth birthday had come and gone with seemingly no difference in the dynamics between the three of them. Oh, he was certain that change would come, and he was sure it would all turn out fine, at least in the long run, but it seemed impossible for it not to be a trifle awkward in the short term.

Perhaps it was too soon. After all, HE'D originally thought twenty-one, though his uncles are argued that eighteen, even perhaps seventeen was all that could reasonably be expected. They'd made it past seventeen, then all the way to her eighteenth birthday, and now he wasn't quite sure what the goal was. One thing he knew for sure, it had to be her decision. Still, no matter what, he was prepared for plenty of awkwardness.

Well, yes, he'd thought that about Ciena as well, and he'd been wrong there, but this time? Yes, awkwardness just seemed inevitable.

 

Ciena and Coura's POV:

He'd seemed terribly on edge three months earlier when Coura's birthday had come and gone. If they'd made their move then, it might not have gone so well, he might have been braced for it. But the time had not been right anyway. Neither sister had been prepared for just how long it took for that tea to get out of one's system! After all, they had only been drinking it for a very short period of time before Ciena decided to call it quits, and it had taken only days for her to start thinking lusty thoughts again and making appropriate plans. But for Coura, well, it had been ever since they'd been together as a family, and that was two years and a bit over! Seems the stuff rather built up! 

As Coura had confided to her mother, in a worried tone, "I'm not sure what it would take to get me in the mood right now! Oh, the caring is there, the affection, all that was, but as for anything else? I even thumbed through some of those interesting portfolios Caeide has in the library and nothing, not a single spark! Even the one I asked her to loan us - you know, THAT ONE! And considering I've always thought that big portfolio in the green binding was in danger of spontaneous combustion, well . . ." 

Felane had just shaken her head, "aye, well, two years is a long time. Lots of water, my girl, as much fresh fruit juice as you can manage, those cleansing herbs I told you about, lots of good hearty exercise to help sweat it all out. Even so it will take some time. It's good you are starting this now; you turn eighteen in another three months. If you're not burning by then, surely it won't take much longer! Of course, don't expect to regain a taste for beer; imagine the smell of hops will near make you gag even now. It does me, even all these years later."

Well, the three months had come and gone, and when at her birthday celebration Ciena had cocked a questioning brow in her direction, Coura had just shaken a despairing head. Kevin had just taken her on a lovely waltz around the room, and the music was grand, and she'd had two glasses of wine, and nothing! Well, not nothing, of course. She was having a lovely time, enjoyed those who were here to celebrate with her, she always loved dancing with Kevin, but any of that tingly, sizzly feeling she used to get when just watching him go about his regular business, long before the three of them had become a family? No, not one single solitary tingle.

Now that celebration was three months in the rear mirror, and when Coura had been startled awake in the wee hours, it was from a shatteringly real, amazingly hot dream, one she blushed even to remember! She suppressed her resultant giggle, {"and it's not as if I blush easily, but still!"}. 

It was with a great deal of satisfaction that she gave that little smile, the quiet nod to Ciena over the breakfast plates. {"Soon, just as soon as I'm sure that wasn't a fluke. Soon, Kevin my love!"}

 

Kevin's POV:  
Kevin knew himself for someone who'd always ran to the conservative and controlled. Still, he'd found himself listening to and taking to heart Goniff's cheerful advice of "ei, w'at's that old saying 'ye've made your bed, now you've got to lie in it?' Well, it's your bed, and one most would give a pretty penny to be in. Might as well find all the ways to make it as pleasing as possible."

Of course, Kevin had been quick to turn down Goniff's equally cheerful offer of "could give you a goodly number of suggestions, you know." He'd come to like the impertinent little Cockney, respect him, even. But trust him? I mean, totally? Enough not to worry he was being set up for an embarrassing con? Not so much. 

He'd not been so quick to decline Caeide's unspoken gift, that big green bound portfolio from Haven's library. Well, loan, since there had been a note about eventually wanting it back.

Still, although it had proven quite interesting, enough to turn him bright red while he was thumbing through it over a glass of brandy, it really wasn't relevant to his particular situation, not the whole book anyway. 

The first quarter of the book featured couples as he tended to think of them, one each of male and female, and the illustrations hadn't shown him much that he wasn't at least aware of, though there were a few he was sure he just wasn't limber enough to try, and more than a few he'd never think of suggesting to a partner.

The next quarter featured two women and one man, and while that technically might be their situation, he thought of them really more as two couples. Well, a couple and a potential possible couple. Or something of that nature. The stray thought came to him that they'd never discussed with him how THEY thought of 'them'. Perhaps he should broach that subject sometime? Perhaps it would be best not to TOTALLY rule out that quarter of the book.

And the third portion of the book, featuring two male figures, well, and the fourth as well, the one with two males and one female? Those were something more likely to be of use to Goniff and Craig and Meghada, and oh my god why was he even glancing through there in the first place????!!!! Now he'd never be able to pass the tea cups to them when they arrived tomorrow, not without picturing those last half a dozen illustrations he'd glimpsed before he slammed the portfolio shut!! He wasn't privy to the specifics of their interactions and he had no desire for that to change!

He forced himself to leave the book closed, at least til he'd poured that next glass of brandy, and then, after a few sips, it seemed not so unacceptable to at least GLANCE at the various illustrations, all the way through. In fact, it took an unheard of third glass of brandy before he'd made his rather befuddled way through the entire portfolio. If nothing else, at least he had a better notion of what Goniff had meant about 'needing a strong back along with being more than a little flexible' when he'd been chattering away about some of the drawings on that swan bed.

 

It had been a quiet evening, just the three of them, the uncles off to Scotland for a couple of weeks. Coura had excused herself, and Kevin and Ciena had started out talking, then it had gradually turned to something warmer. Now, warmer had turned to heated, and it seemed most promising. This was one of his favorite ways to begin, and she knew it; well, one out of maybe a dozen or more favorite ways, and there were also all those ways that ALMOST made it into the top dozen list and seemed to alternate in and out of that most varied list.

Now he was fully erect, upright on his knees in front of her, her smiling lovingly down at him. His hands moved over her thighs, up over her hips, reaching higher to caress her full breasts as she arched into his hands, as he pressed warm kisses to her skin, grazing her ribcage and making her shiver in anticipation. Her gaze shifted slightly, and her smile intensified, growing even warmer, more heated. 

{"Yes, this was how we discussed it, so very long ago. I remember how father spit his coffee out all over the kitchen table and how mother scolded him, even as she chuckled at what we'd planned."}

Now, she waited for the moment when he'd realize they weren't alone, that first moment when he felt that warm breath on his cheek, the gentle touch of those hands touching him, the soft words of encouragement soon to be whispered into his ear.

{"Oh, yes, my love. This has been long in the planning, so just relax and enjoy. We can't have you fainting now, now can we? It would be a most inopportune moment, to be sure."}. Still, somehow she thought he would make them proud, once he got over the initial shock. 

 

In the pale morning light, he stretched luxuriously, smiling at the two figures curled, one to each side of him. Coura opened drowsy eyes and smiled in return. 

"Good morning, Kevin. Any plans for today?"

"Other than writing a thank you note to Caeide for the loan of that portfolio, nothing specific. And you, my dears?"

A warm chuckle came from Ciena, "oh, I imagine we can think of something to keep us all amused."

And, somehow, they did. And it wasn't even the slightest bit awkward.


End file.
